


With A Bite and A Hiss (and Some Curry On Top)

by ZandraGorin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-War, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, HP Fluff Fest 2020, Injured Pets/ Animals, Kissing, M/M, Parselmouth Harry Potter, Parseltongue, Pets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:14:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25877989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZandraGorin/pseuds/ZandraGorin
Summary: Draco keeps bringing animals home and keeps cooking curry for Harry. Harry is of the opinion that it has got to stop. Well, not the cooking curry part.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 26
Kudos: 287
Collections: HP Fluff Fest 2020





	With A Bite and A Hiss (and Some Curry On Top)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iRavenish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iRavenish/gifts).



> To the fluff fest mods: Thank you for hosting a (in my opinion) sorely needed fest fit for these trying times. We need all the softness and fluff in the world. At least, I do.
> 
> To my beta: [WeasleyWench](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeasleyWench/pseuds/WeasleyWench), you breezed through this little fic, phew! Thank you for going through this in such a short period of time! And thank you, again, for your words of wisdom. They are very much appreciated. I always learn loads from you!^^
> 
> And to [iRavenish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iRavenish/pseuds/iRavenish): Hello! Hi! Thank you for this prompt, it was very enjoyable to write and imagine. I hope you enjoy reading!

The sharp scent of spices assaults Harry as he stumbles out of the Floo—strong and earthy, it whirls in the air and surrounds him as he rights himself and waits for his sitting room to stop spinning. His stomach rumbles in anticipation, even as wariness slithers along his skin and burrows into it, bone-deep, while he sniffs at the mouth-watering aroma. 

Draco cooking only means one thing, and Harry’s eyes dart across the sitting room, immediately on guard.

He’s achy and tired and famished, and he doesn’t have the energy to be on the other side of the debate that comes along with his favourite Draco-dish.

Well. It’s not strictly _Draco’s_ dish, but it’s one of the few things he’s now comfortable with cooking. Once Draco got the correct proportion of spices down, he immediately claimed the dish as his own. Even if it was Harry’s recipe to begin with. Not that Harry minded—he was too busy being pleased and insanely proud and stuffed with spoonfuls of spicy goodness.

Low, familiar humming diverts Harry’s attention, and he ends up brushing off any lingering soot on his lime-green robes with a soft huff of amusement. The tune is somewhat off-key but it still tugs at the corners of his mouth, at the happy-tired beat of his heart, and warms the cold stress he’s bottled up during his shift.

It’s been a long day of swishing and flicking and running about the lemon-scented halls of St. Mungo’s, and Harry has barely kept afloat with the sheer volume and quality of patients under his department. Sometimes, on the bad days when he’s yelled at or covered with questionable bodily fluids or failed to see a patient through, he has difficulty remembering why he keeps at it. But, sometimes, like today, when the little girl he just discharged ran up to him before leaving, healthy and beaming and glowing with life, and gave him a tight hug and a warm thank you, pushed a drawing of the two of them into his twelve-hour-shift-shaky hands, it’s not that hard to remember the _why_. Everything always seems to be worth it on days like this...

...days like this when Harry feels like he knows what he’s doing, and there’s a drawing of him in his pocket that looks nothing like him, and there’s curry on the cooker that his tune-humming person is probably going to use to bribe him with.

Because Draco making curry means that Harry’s probably (most likely) going to have to reason with him. And that he’s probably going to lose, if he’s being completely honest. Still, he’s not giving in without a fight. He’s already part-exasperated and part-curious as he makes his way across the sitting room.

It’s messier compared to when he left this morning—little signs of life that are an instant surge of comfort, a reminder that he is not alone. The dog-eared book on the coffee table tells him that Draco spent hours just browsing through the latest potions theories, and sure enough, Draco’s reading glasses are there, thrown haphazardly atop the disarranged pillows. There’s a jumper strewn over the loveseat, and Harry shakes his head bemusedly at Draco’s insistence of stealing Harry’s clothes when he has a closet full of well-tailored, expensive ones of his own. 

The edge of the cream-coloured couch draws Harry’s eyes, as always, as the bright lights from the fish tank casts pretty colours on it, and evidence of Poseidon being recently fed floats around the now-green water. The quiet, mechanical buzz of the air pump only adds to the mixture of noises that Harry has long acquainted to _home_ and the tight lines of tension in his back further loosen. Poseidon fixes his small, black eyes at him, and _obb-obbs_ his little mouth as Harry draws nearer, the bubbling, green water shifting to blue, and he swims up excitedly to nibble at Harry’s finger as it breaks through the water’s surface. 

It’s a nice feeling, the gentle nipping, and Harry watches Poseidon busy himself with the task as multi-coloured bits of fish food swim around the surrounding ripples. Harry’s mouth twitches. He wiggles his finger, creating more blue-purple currents. “Someone’s due for a cleaning.”

Poseidon’s stripy body shimmers as he swims away and hides inside his castle, and Harry chuckles as he wipes his finger on his robes. He watches the colours shift from purple to red to orange, letting the colours flow through the remnants of his still shift-weary mind—soaks in the cool then warm hues—and lets it slowly usher away the lingering tribulations of cases he’s yet to solve, and cheering, recovering patients, and bossy, self-important colleagues. There are other days for that, still, and anyway, he’s loads of other shifts to work things out.

By the time Poseidon’s colour-shifting lights circle back from yellow to green, Harry’s idly aware of how Draco’s humming has escalated into full-on singing. Poseidon’s peeping up at him again curiously, almost as if in askance, as Draco reaches the chorus of his odd, mixed-up song, and Harry decides that maybe it’s time for an intervention.

“I’m serious,” Harry mutters. “Cleaning. Tomorrow.”

Poseidon wiggles back into his castle.

Harry peels off his robe and throws it carelessly over the couch—it’s already messy, anyway, and he’ll clean up later, he swears. There are more urgent matters to attend to, if Draco’s cooking, singing self is any indication, and most of the time it is. He’s almost at the hallway when heavy thuds race toward him, and Harry grins, bracing himself for impact.

It doesn’t come.

There’s a bark and a clatter, and a blur of a pup slides across the floor, stopping just a few inches from Harry’s shoes, all four of his little legs spread out as he blinks wide, excited eyes at his other owner.

“Careful there, Apollo.” Harry kneels and scratches him behind his good ear.

The singing stops. “Oh, good, you’re home!” Draco calls out.

“Yeah,” Harry returns.

Apollo scrambles to his feet, making one triangular ear flop—half-bent at a familiar, odd angle— at the vigorous movement. 

“Should I be worried?” Harry lifts a brow at the little brown-white-red pup. “What did he bring this time?”

Apollo looks up at him, tongue lolling out, and merely twists his head to slobber all over Harry’s fingers. 

“Hmm. Very enlightening,” Harry murmurs. “Come on, then.”

Apollo pads beside him, and Harry's almost envious of his boundless energy. His stomach rumbles as the scent of delicious curry grows stronger, and he allows himself to close his eyes and breathe it in. His mouth waters in anticipation and—

“Woah—!”

—and he really should know better than to walk around with his eyes closed in this household.

There’s a bark and an unimpressed, almost irritable _meorrrw_ , and he manages to throw his arms out and not break his nose, but his knee certainly does not appreciate the impact on the wooden floor.

“What’s that?” Draco’s voice sounds from the kitchen. “What did you break this time?”

“Nothing!” Harry answers, indignant. He glares at the fluffy, white beast who looks very unsympathetic for someone who almost broke Harry’s leg, and says in a lower tone, “Must you, Artemis?”

Artemis looks at him, all wide eyes and pudgy muzzle, both haughty and pleased with herself, and merely stretches—the long, white, fluffy line of her body bright against the dark wooden floor. She’s a piece of work, really, and a stark contrast to the little ball of energy that is Apollo, who’s still barking and running circles excitedly around her. She’s looking at him with an air of displeasure—short, stump of a tail twitching once to show offense at the riot he’s creating around the both of them.

She’s never liked noisy places, and it is a testament of having grown up with Apollo that she merely lets him get on with the ruckus, sitting tall and pretty with a now calculated sort of disinterest. Up to this day, Harry wonders how this little beast is the same helpless, cuddly kitten Draco rescued on that very stormy night. 

Seeming to be finally content with the amount of circles he’s done, Apollo barks happily, and with one last bump at Harry’s feet, speeds off to the kitchen. 

Artemis follows Apollo’s progress with her intelligent, sea-green eyes, stretches again, then paws at Harry’s leg. She sidles up next to him, rubbing her pristine, white, coat along Harry’s trousers, and nudges his hand, clearly asking for attention. 

He gives in with a quiet sigh. “You are just like your father. We should have named you after him instead.”

“What was that?” Draco asks.

Artemis _meorrrws_ as Harry’s fingers scratches and pets, obviously pleased with the affection he’s lavishing on her, and Harry’s irritation sizzles into nothing.

“I said, the food smells good,” Harry answers as he gives their temperamental cat one last scratch and gets to his feet before Artemis decides to plop on his lap and demand more. She rights herself and brushes against his leg before sauntering off ahead of him. 

“Thought so,” comes Draco’s reply.

Harry bends his knee, then his ankle, and when he’s certain nothing’s broken or dislocated, he lets Draco’s stern voice lead him into their kitchen. “Oh for— _sit,_ Apollo. Must you? Artemis, plant your bum elsewhere if you don’t want me to step on you, please,” Draco suggests in a tone that most people would cringe from, and Harry shakes his head in amusement. 

The amusement is short-lived, however, and he stops in his tracks at the kitchen doorway. “Draco…” Harry starts, tone disapproving.

“I know what you’re going to say, but can we at least have dinner first?”

Harry eyes him warily, only a bit ruffled by the pale pink-red eyes that survey him from their place round Draco’s shoulders. It’s quite a sight, really, Artemis and Apollo and Draco and… well, _that,_ all looking at him with various expressions of interest and attention.

“By ‘we’, does that include him?”

“Her,” Draco corrects. “And of course it does; she’s our guest.”

Harry slips into his seat with a sigh as their dinner guest moves down Draco’s shoulder. Artemis and Apollo give her a wide berth, but otherwise don’t look too alarmed by its—her presence. She bumps one of the legs on their table, then one leg of Harry’s chair and, body spread out like this, Harry can see the odd shape of her tail and the way one eye seems to be paler than the other, a thin, milky film overlying the already pale, pink-red hue.

Despite all that, she finally makes her way beside Harry’s feet and regards him with curiosity from her place on the floor, tasting the air around him. Seemingly satisfied with what she finds, she moves up Harry’s leg, twisting her way around him to rest at his shoulders. 

The striped red-white-yellow scales are still somewhat cold despite having been wrapped around Draco’s frame, but Harry doesn’t mind much. At least, the cool scales are the _least_ of his worries.

“Tell me she’s at least non-venomous,” Harry probes, hesitant to move or jostle the colourful reptile around his shoulders.

“Why don’t you ask her for yourself? It’s rude to talk about someone who’s just there, you know.”

Harry retorts, “She’s a bloody snake; she can’t even understand what we’re saying.”

“Exactly. It must be very confusing for her. Frightening even.”

Harry takes a moment to close his eyes and breathe. The delicious scent of curry swims in the air and the familiar scene unravels behind Harry’s closed lids. “Draco.”

“Yes, Harry,” Draco answers, just a bit petulant, and finally turns around to look at him. “I brought home a big great deadly snake just for the thrill of having to brew multiple anti-venom potions because I’ve nothing else to do all day.”

Harry eyes the brightly-coloured reptile—she looks quite content just draped around him like this, and he knows how this snake captured Draco’s attention, of course he does. It’s like Poseidon and Apollo and Artemis all over again. Still, he wonders just how many more animals Draco will be bringing home and just when Harry will be able to finally put his foot down.

 _Not anytime soon_ , he reckons, if the warmth in his chest at the look Draco’s sending their guest-snake is anything to go by.

The snake gives another _hiss_ , and it takes Harry a moment to focus but once he gets his bearings, a door appears in the far corner of his mind. It unlocks, slowly at first, letting the first few memories trickle in, but then it swings open, and memories of ancient, smooth, rolling words and sounds flood Harry’s senses. 

_‘So many scents.’_

Harry shakes his head in an effort to clear it. “We’re not keeping a snake in the house, love.”

Draco sends the pot of curry over to the table with a graceful wave of his wand. “Dinner first.”

“You know, at some point, this is going to stop working.”

Draco plants a swift kiss on his temple as he passes Harry, and fills Artemis’ and Apollo’s food bowls with two quick flicks of his wand. “Whatever do you mean?”

_‘The Pale One is making many scents.’_

Harry folds his arms. “Please. I know what you’re trying to do, Draco.”

“Trying to feed you dinner?” Draco answers, as he slides into his seat. “Well, yes, that is quite obvious.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.” Harry narrows his eyes. “I am not going to be bribed with your curry,” Harry asserts. _Again._ It’s difficult to ignore the way his mouth waters as he eyes Draco’s cooking with thinly-veiled interest, and he’s certain Draco knows how difficult it is to resist giving in. Every single time he wants something that he knows Harry would say no to, the scent of spices melt in the air and coaxes Harry’s poor self into somehow just going along and _letting_ him. It always works, Harry’s loathe to admit, but that doesn’t mean he’s just going to let it happen without one hell of a fight. It’s just the principle of the thing. 

And this is different. It’s not an interesting, wobbly fish, or a poor wounded pup or kitten—a _snake._ Honestly.

Draco shrugs, not even bothering to deny the accusation, the infuriating man. He scoops a good amount of the spicy dish onto Harry’s plate, and the scent of paprika and roux circles up in a current of rich flavour into Harry’s nose—fabricates a sharp burst of flavour on his tongue. “You like curry,” Draco states. “Are you complaining?”

_‘For the Darker One. Does not seem pleased. Wonders why. Nice scents. Food.’_

Harry sends Draco a half-hearted glare before he glances at his scaly companion, still at odds with himself. The words are at the tip of his tongue, a sound and a slur of a hiss waiting to be released. He knows that if he engages, half the battle will be lost. He feels Draco’s amused gaze on him, and he curses inwardly. _Bastard._

_‘Would be nice. If Darker One is not pleased, should give it instead. Poor Self. Pale One should be making for Self instead...’_

Harry takes a bite of his curry and almost moans in delight. The first bite is always a blast of flavour—the way the strong spices sit on his tongue, the pleasant sting of it lining a way down his throat. He knows that Draco likes having it spicier than Harry can handle—an explosion rather than a tentative tickle on his taste buds—but he’s always mindful and considerate of the amount and mixture of his spices, and the way Harry warms up has more to do with that fact than with the second or third spoonful of his scrumptious dinner.

He feels Draco’s eyes on him, and when Harry looks up from his plate there’s a small furrow sitting between Draco’s brows. “I’m not the one complaining,” Harry points out. “Has she eaten yet?”

“Yes.” Draco quirks an eyebrow. “Is she still hungry?”

Harry hesitates, then shoves another spoonful of curry in his mouth. “I think she wants some curry.”

“You can’t feed a snake curry.” Draco chews slowly. Harry watches the bob of Draco’s throat as he swallows, lets the slight downturn of his mouth distract him from the _hissing_ , dramatic reptile by his ear. “Can you?”

“I don’t think you should. Shouldn’t you have asked the shopkeeper before you brought her home?”

There’s a scuffling sound behind him and then a _clang_ , and Harry turns just in time to see Apollo racing out of the kitchen.

“Always running about. Honestly.”

“Oh, leave him be,” Harry says, in a fond tone. “At least he’s not running into things or knocking them over anymore.”

“You are aware that this is Apollo we’re talking about and not you, are you not?”

“Hey!”

Draco throws him a half-grin, and Harry’s heart tumbles about behind his rib cage at the sight of it—the slow up-curl of one side of Draco’s lips, the way the corner of his eyes crinkle, the warm emotion just lurking behind his eyes as he draws Harry in. “You spoil him too much.” Underneath the table, Draco’s foot nudges at his and stays there. 

Harry reins in a shiver. How Draco’s feet are almost always cold is a mystery to him, still.

“Oh, _I_ spoil him too much?” Harry counters, trapping Draco’s foot between his own. “Who was it who bought him that squeaky toy the other day? Remind me again how much it cost?”

As if to further his point, the _squeak-squeak-squeak_ of said toy sounds from somewhere in the other room, and the pretty pink colour that blooms on Draco’s cheeks renders his rather impressive scowl ineffective. “It was perfectly reasonably priced, Potter!”

Harry snorts, eyebrows raised. “Sure it was.” Something smooth and soft brushes against Harry’s leg, and he spies Artemis’ white coat as she settles near the foot of Draco’s chair, curling contentedly by his side.

_‘Fighting? Must bite Darker One if Pale One desires to win.’_

Harry chokes on his curry, feeling his own face warm up, and before he can stop himself, the reply spews from his mouth in an intricate curl of sounds, like a slither of cool scales on his tongue: _‘There will be no biting.’_

Draco blinks at him, spoon half-way to his mouth.

Harry ignores how Draco’s gaze burns on the side of his face, focuses on the way the snake lifts her head and points her pink-red eyes at Harry curiously. _‘You are learned. You hear. You speak. The Pale One does not.’_

_‘The pale one is called Draco.’_

_‘Draco.’_

_‘Yes.’_

“What is she saying?” The look on Draco’s face is intrigued, and there’s something in the way he peers at the both of them that Harry thinks he should explore later.

_‘And Darker One?’_

_‘What about me?’_

_‘What are you called?’_

_‘Harry. My name is Harry.’_

“What are you two talking about?” Draco’s tone is bordering on irritation, and the foot that’s still trapped between Harry’s twitches.

_‘Name?’_

_‘Yes. Name. What we’re called. Do you have a name?’_

_‘Self knows not a thing about what you call as names. Self is merely Self.’_

The loud _clink_ of glass tears Harry’s gaze away from their snake-guest, and Draco looks so thoroughly displeased that Harry finds it difficult to stop his mouth from twitching. “You are being rather rude, you know.”

Harry ignores him, and his outraged expression is so amusing that when he answers their snake-guest, he has to cover his mouth with the back of his hand to hide his grin. _‘You don’t have a name?’_

_‘Already said not. Darker One is learned, but knows little in paying attention.’_

Harry doesn’t know many snakes who can sound as exasperated as the one currently sliding from his shoulder to his lap. _‘Sorry.’_

“Fine,” Draco snaps, tugging his foot away, and sends his plate to the sink with an agitated jab of his wand. He stands, the chair scraping loudly and the jarring noise and sudden motion jolts Artemis from her lounging about. She throws Draco an affronted look before she stretches and saunters out of the kitchen, stumpy tail stiff with offense.

“I think you upset Artemis.”

Draco looks at him, all narrowed eyes and surly, thin lips. He’s so properly riled up about Harry’s inattention that Harry has this probably-not-wise desire to draw it out.

_‘Fighting again. Should bite. Will win with a bite.’_

_‘You think?’_ Harry wonders, wickedly amused, without taking his eyes off his very cross partner.

Draco rolls his eyes and turns back to his dishes in the sink. It’s really quite impressive, how Draco can look so incensed and yet look so flustered at the same time.

 _‘Oh yes. Certainly.’_ The snake sways her head side to side, quite eager at the prospect of a biting match. She slides down from Harry’s lap to a spot on the floor, eyeing the scene with something close to fascination. Harry would hate to disappoint her.

“Hey, Draco. Come here.”

“You come here,” Draco mutters, petulant. The dish he’s washing bobs rather ominously despite Draco’s steady hold of his wand.

Harry masks a snicker into a cough, closes the distance between them, reaches out and wraps his arms around Draco’s waist, enjoys the warm flutter in his stomach when Draco relaxes against his chest after a mere moment’s hesitation. 

“What should we name her, then?”

Draco stills. “Excuse me?”

“Name,” Harry repeats, his warm hand sliding under Draco’s shirt to rest against the flat plane of his stomach, and he soaks in the satisfying way Draco shivers against him. “She should have a name if we’re keeping her, shouldn’t she?”

Slowly, in precise, measured movements, Draco rinses the plate in his hand and sends it flying off to the stack. He then Summons Harry’s plate and utensils as well, repeats the motions, and Harry waits in a comfortable silence only broken by the _gush_ of water and the _clinking_ of glass and metal. He can almost hear Draco’s mind whirring, a complete disconnect on the calm and fluid motions of his hands, but Harry knows he’s thinking a mile a minute—feels it in the way Draco’s heart is hammering against Harry’s palm when he slides his hand further under Draco’s shirt.

_‘Should bite while Pale One is trapped. Should not let him get away.’_

Harry grins against Draco’s shoulder. _‘I won’t.’_

Draco makes an annoyed-sounding noise, which Harry promptly answers with a light kiss on his cheek. The skin is warm against Harry’s lips, and Harry absolutely loves the way he can see the red flush blossom from Draco’s cheeks to his ears, down his neck…

“Well?” Harry urges. “Have you thought of one?”

Finally done with the washing, Draco turns off the spigot, twists his head to level a look at him, suspicious and wary, and Harry schools his expression into the one Draco’s called his Healer-face. “Now I’m really curious about the conversation you just had with her.”

Harry glances swiftly at their almost-pet snake, and shrugs. “We were wondering about names, that’s all.”

Draco snorts inelegantly, disbelieving, but the sound still tugs at the corners of Harry’s mouth. Draco’s silent as he looks at the snake that’s still regarding them with an intrigued tilt of his white-yellow head.

“Helios.”

Harry looks at him for a long moment. “You want to... name a snake... Helios?”

Draco casts him an impassive look. “You named our fish, Poseidon.”

“You thought it was funny!” Harry argues.

“I thought it was ridiculous,” Draco counters, “There’s a difference.”

Harry pinches him. 

“Harry!” Draco rubs at the spot, glaring at Harry through the corner of his eyes, but makes no move to step away from the circle of Harry’s arms. 

“I’m not the one who named our cat Artemis.”

“Well _I’m_ not the one who named our dog Apollo.”

“It’s a perfectly good name for a dog,” Harry insists.

“And Helios is a perfectly good name for a snake.” Draco shrugs. “Ask her then. If she objects then you think of a name. I doubt you’d come up with anything better, anyway.”

Harry pinches him again. This time, Draco jumps and proceeds to slap at Harry’s hand. “That is going to bruise, you heathen. Let go of me.” Harry tightens his arms around Draco and refuses to budge.

_‘Still fighting. Does not heed words. Should bite. Would end fight.’_

Harry rubs at the spot he just pinched, and Draco lets himself be soothed despite grumbling under his breath. _‘Draco wants to give you a name.’_

_‘A name? Self is being gifted a name. Oh, such excitement. What is the name, Self wonders.’_

_‘He wants to call you Helios. Is that alright with you?’_

_“Helios,’_ the snake echoes, trying the name out with a pleased sounding _hiss_ . _‘A Powerful name. Majestic. Such a thing to be called. Why is a name being gifted to Self?’_

_‘Because we want you to stop with us. Welcome you into our home.’_

The snake slithers across the floor, wraps around Harry and Draco almost excitedly. _‘Home? Nest? For Self? Helios?’_

“What is she saying?” Draco mutters, a steady, warm weight against Harry’s chest, a stark contrast to the cool, winding movement of their snake.

 _‘Yes.’_ Harry answers. _‘If you want.’_

They watch its progress, sliding around both of their bodies, across their shoulders, back down in a circle of white-red-yellow beside their feet.

 _‘Helios.’_ Their snake repeats, and Harry feels the delight that punctuates the sounds sweeping across her tongue. _‘So beautiful. Like Self.’_

Helios continues her random path across their kitchen floor, occasionally bumping on fixtures, tongue darting out to take in the scents, head swaying this way and that in an almost giddy bend of her head. Harry thinks that that’s as much of a _yes_ as he’s going to get out of their snake, who’s busy exploring her new home.

“Harry?” Draco probes, eyes following Helios as she twists around the legs of their kitchen table one after the other.

“She likes it,” Harry roughly translates, partly amused and partly disbelieving.

“See?” Draco exclaims with a proud grin on his face that makes Harry feel warm all over. “Now will you let go of me, or did you plan on spending the night in the kitchen?”

With one last look at Helios, Harry bites none too gently on the slope of Draco’s neck, earning him a surprised yelp and a “What the fuck, Potter?” Draco turns in his arms to bat at Harry’s shaking shoulders, a colourful array of curses piling one after the other on his mouth, and Harry kisses him.

Helios’ gleeful _hiss_ sounds from somewhere in the corner. _‘See. Will win with a bite.’_

There’s a _thud_ and a bark and a _meorrrw_ that sounds incredibly put out, and chaos ensues as Apollo barrels inside the kitchen, chasing Artemis who has his squeaky toy captive in her mouth.

“What—?” Draco pulls away from the kiss and looks at the scene with an air of fond exasperation. “Oh for the love of—Artemis, Apollo, behave.”

_‘Loud sounds. Chasing. Looks tiring. Troublesome.’_

Harry barely spares them a glance as Apollo and Artemis plop on the floor, squeaky toy in between them. 

_‘Fighting? Who will win, Helios wonders. Both biting. Exciting.’_

_‘Not fighting,’_ Harry inputs, tearing his gaze away from Draco’s face for a moment to survey the scene before him. Artemis and Apollo have apparently both released the squeaky toy that is now rolling between them. Helios looks on at Apollo’s excited pawing and at Artemis’ calculated nudging, and Harry can see the wonder behind her pink-red eyes. _‘Sharing.’_

 _‘Sharing?’_ Helios echoes, sliding into a round heap just a few inches away from the playing pair. _‘Not fighting? No biting?’_ She almost sounds disappointed.

Harry laughs, and Draco refocuses on him, a bewildered look on his face. “What’s so funny?”

“I think Helios has an oral fixation problem.”

Draco frowns, dragging speculative eyes from Helios to Harry. “Like you, then?”

“Hey! That’s not—” Harry’s protest dies in his throat as Draco kisses him soundly. Teeth nibbling on Harry’s bottom lip in a silent plea, Harry opens his mouth, letting Draco lick his way inside.

 _‘See. Will win with a bite,’_ Harry hears Helios repeat, sounding quite smug.

Draco wraps his arms around Harry’s neck and, already thinking of other places he can bite later on, Harry thinks maybe having another snake around isn’t going to be too bad, after all.

**Author's Note:**

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